


the space-equivalent of three in the morning is the perfect time for a heart-to-heart

by obstinateRixatrix



Series: vaguely connected k/l series [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, POV Lance (Voltron), POV Third Person, Pre-Relationship, no romo in-fic tho I’m just letting yall know My Bias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7784101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinateRixatrix/pseuds/obstinateRixatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Crystal Venom, Lance has a talk with Keith. Whether he wants to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the space-equivalent of three in the morning is the perfect time for a heart-to-heart

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to sine for the beta, and also, I had no idea how this was going to end until I remembered & was subsequently inspired by [this fic](http://sinelanguage.tumblr.com/post/147870836495/). so, double thanks.
> 
> also this is rated G but fair warning there is one (1) instance of the frick word. if anyone thinks it should be upped to T, do let me know!
> 
> edit: [art](http://obstinaterixatrix.tumblr.com/post/151398215269/)
> 
> edit: [a spiritual sequel, of sorts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12195810)

His room is too small.

Which is ridiculous, because it's not like it changed size or anything— it's the same as it's always been, which is bigger than his dorm at the garrison _actually_. But apparently it's too small to sleep in now, because every time Lance settles in for some shut-eye he can practically feel the walls closing in on him. Which is _also_ ridiculous because _walls don't move_. At least, these ones don't! So he's just been losing sleep for no reason whatsoever. Weird brain stuff psyching him out. It's a good thing it's been relatively calm, because he's pretty sure at this point the best he could possibly contribute is falling asleep on the enemy.

It's not like he can't be productive during these late... well, they're not nights, but a rough approximation of circadian synchrony has been established for Team Earth. Kind of. Doesn't mean much what with how little sleep everyone else seems to need. So yeah, he could be up doing some subjectively-late cleaning under Coran's supervision, he could be helping Pidge and Hunk with their sudden interest in introducing 'manual overrides' to Altean tech, he could be doing any number of the varied and intensive Altean training simulations, except he doesn't want to do any of that, he wants to _sleep_. And apparently, he's not going to get any in his own room.

Of course, there's an obvious solution here, and Lance is ready to take it after exhausting all other options. The options being: 1) lying in bed, or 2) that's it. So, after making absolutely sure he's not going to trade insomnia for sudden narcolepsy, he grabs a pillow, gathers up his quilt, and makes his way to one of many common rooms available.

It’s weirdly mundane, setting up camp on a couch; he's no stranger to being kicked out of his own room for guests, or relatives, or whenever his siblings have a sleepover, and while the current situation is none of the above, it's similar enough. Even if the couch in question is a space-couch in an ancient-yet-advanced castle hurtling through the cosmos. Apparently some things are universal, and it's lucky for him one of them happens to be couches.

The couch also straddles the awkward divide between familiar and foreign, almost the same kind of slick upholstery in the waiting rooms of hotels and hospitals, but alien enough to be distinct. Lance can't even begin to guess what the couch is even made of. It doesn't feel like something that could conceivably come from an animal, but also, like he'd even know what processed Altean wildlife whatever would feel like. Then again he's pretty sure he hasn't seen Coran or Allura eat any meat, so what if Alteans are— were?— the space equivalent of vegans? He wouldn't be surprised, given the Altean values he picked up from them. But also, they could just be vegetarians. Also also, maybe it's not Altean values, just Coran-and-Allura values.

While contemplating the possibility of a space-vegan society, the door slides open, the lights turn on, and that really sucks. "Hey!" he shouts, putting as much affront he can into the word.

Of course, it's Keith standing in the doorway, and to his credit he looks halfway to apologetic. "Sorry," he says, dimming the lights. "I wasn't expecting anyone to be here." He lingers in the doorway as Lance settles back into the couch, an uncertain set to his stance. His silhouette, backlit by the hallway, is completely obnoxious.

"You gonna stand there all night?"

It's not an invitation, but Keith takes it as one. He hovers by the couch for an obvious and awkward length of time before sitting at the end opposite where Lance is splayed out. The silence is just as uncomfortable.

Apparently, it's up to him to break it.

"So," he starts, flopping over on his stomach because this isn't a conversation he's trying to have with the ceiling. "What brings you to my corner of the castle?"

"This isn't your corner," Keith points out. He'll just take any opportunity to be a contrary, pedantic jerk, won't he. "It's nobody's corner."

"Well, nobody's corner just got claimed by yours truly. If anyone's got a problem with that, there's the door." At Keith's answering huff, Lance discards any illusion of sleep happening and actually sits up, gathering his quilt around him. "Seriously, it's gonna be hard getting any shut-eye with some moody jerk glaring at me from the other side of the room. Was there something you wanted, or are you just acting weird for no reason?"

"I'm not acting weird, you're the one acting," and here Keith gestures emphatically at Lance, as if physical floundering can somehow convey what he's trying to get across. It can't. "I'm just... worried."

"You're worried."

"About you," he clarifies. "I wanted to know if you were alright." He looks almost miserable, squeezing out words that were _clearly_ scripted, rehearsed, and delivered with the stilted cadence of an amateur.

"What the fuck." Lance clamps a hand over his mouth. "Heck, what the heck, oh fu—  _fudge_." A stream of muffled curses, carefully self-censored, fills the room. After getting that out of the system, Lance stands up, pillow in hand, quilt trailing like a cape.

He walks towards Keith and starts whacking him repeatedly until the weapon is wrestled away. "Give me back my pillow you jerk!"

"Not if you're going to keep hitting me with it," he shoots back, straining to keep the pillow out of reach. "What was that for!?"

"You made me swear!"

"I didn't _make_ you do anything! Why are you like this!"

"I'm going to be a bad influence! I'm going to be a bad influence and it's your fault!"

At that, Keith's expression does a sudden about-face from indignant to bewildered. "What," he says, a question framed like a statement.

"What if I slip up back at home, huh? I'll never live it down!" Lance sinks into the couch. Oh god, he can see it now. "First comes the swear words, then the talking back, next thing you know they'll be cutting classes and smoking cigarettes, they'll be delinquents! And it'll be all my fault!"

With every word that comes out of Lance’s mouth Keith just looks more and more lost, completely incapable of keeping up. "Who?"

"My brothers! My sisters! My cousins! All of them! Mateo's just finishing up elementary school, he's at an impressionable age! I can't be the reason he gets lung cancer!"

"Are you serious."

At that, Lance pulls himself back from his catastrophizing. Keith stares in disbelief, which is somehow more irritating than anything that could be conveyed in words. "It's legitimate concern," he retorts, though thinking back on it he might've been slightly overdramatic. Not that he'd ever admit it. This is his hill to die on.

"I can't believe you, of all people, are trying to be a good influence."

"And what's that supposed to mean!"

At the long withering look, Lance lets out a sigh.

"Look," he says, "the whole point of being a good older brother is making sure all subsequent siblings are better than you were at that age. Now I can admit that back in the day, I was a little—"

"Shit," Keith supplies. 

"— _punk_ , and it's my job to make sure a repeat doesn't happen. I'm a role model! I’m a good student! I can't bring home bad habits from space!"

"Didn't you sneak out to goof off all the time at the garrison?" It’s a question torn between skeptical and amused, a little too soft to have any real bite to it. If Keith wasn’t who he was, Lance could’ve almost almost believed there was genuine interest.

"Okay _first_ of all, I took the chance to have fun, so sue me. Second, being a good student and having a social life aren't mutually exclusive!" And, because it's just too easy, he throws out, "not that you would know," for good measure.

Apparently, amusement wins out, which is pretty strange considering the fact that those were some prime Fighting Words just thrown down. "Wow. It sounds like you're a pretty good brother."

"Oh yeah, well you—" The lack of insult catches up, and Lance cuts off his unnecessary (but totally devastating) comeback. "Uh, thanks? I mean," he continues, hopefully before he can be accused of any egregious sincerity, "yeah! I am! Thank you _so much_ for noticing."

Keith, apparently, doesn't have the same concerns. "You're also a good teammate," he says, "and I appreciate you taking the time to spar with me."

"Well," Lance says, taken aback, "obviously you need something more challenging than one of those holo-mecha gladiators. You're gonna lose your edge, mullet."

"It's a good thing I have you around, then."

There's a disturbing lack of sarcasm in that sentence. "Okay, this is getting weird."

"It's not getting weird."

"Yep this is _definitely_ weird now."

"It's not weird!"

"You know what, you're right! This is beyond weird. I don't think there's a word that can describe how weird it's gotten."

"It's not—" Keith cuts himself off with a frustrated noise, and thank god it looks like he wants to strangle Lance. Finally, some normalcy in this ridiculous parallel universe where Keith tries to be _nice_. "We’re just talking! This is how people talk to each other!”

“Yeah, maybe in after-school specials. Why are you acting like this!?”

“I'm trying to get you to tell me why you can't sleep!"

After that, Lance shuts up.

For about two seconds.

"You're... asking me why I can't sleep."

"Everyone's been worried," he says, in what feels like some dramatic confession. "You look tired. You haven't been as annoying. Or at least, not in the usual way. There's something wrong, I know there is, so why don't you just... talk to us."

It's honestly a relief, knowing most of this was an inexplicable decision to foist some strange perception of damage control onto quite possibly the least qualified member of the team. "Wow. I can't believe this." Lance punctuates the statement with a laugh, dragging a hand through his own bed-head. "Keith, my man, it is such a shame you can't understand the irony here, because let me tell you, it's pretty wild."

"What are you talking about! Why is it whenever I try and have a conversation—"

"Do you know," Lance interrupts, "how much sleep I've lost because of you?"

Keith blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Late nights at the library, last-second cram sessions, did you know Hunk has the sleep habits of an old man? It's true, he starts getting tired at nine unless there's a project for him to focus on, and review packets don't count." He speaks conversationally, with a casual tone at odds with the tension of his grip on the quilt he’s pulled around himself. "I did everything I could to claw my way up to you, and what was I? A cargo pilot. And now you're asking me why I can't sleep. You really..." Lance leans over, resting his forehead on Keith's awful bony shoulder. "You're the worst."

Keith lays a tentative arm around Lance in what's suspiciously close to a hug. The space around them suddenly feels liminal, as if all the unreality of the whole chosen-heroes-fated-to-pilot-sentient-robot-cats thing is catching up and condensing into that specific second.

"You know what's terrible," Lance says, after who knows how long, "is that right now, I would trade anyone on this ship for a good cup of hot chocolate."

Keith, inexplicably, decides to indulge Lance’s non-sequitur with an expression that isn’t harsh enough. "Is that so."

"Actually now that I think about it, maybe just you. Yeah, I think one Keith is at least worth a cup of hot chocolate and some milk jam."

"Milk jam?"

"Milk jam," Lance confirms. That's probably what it's called in English.

"Well, if that's the case, I guess that means I'm at least a cup of hot chocolate. And some milk jam. Thank you." It's the most belligerent expression of aggressively sincere gratitude that anyone could possibly make.

"No, don't turn this into a compliment, you don't get to do that." Without looking, Lance waves a hand in Keith's general direction until he manages to get a good whack. "You'd be terrible hot chocolate. The kind made with hot water and dollar store cocoa powder. No milk jam whatsoever. Hey, do you think we're going to die out here?"

Keith gets a brief look of intense panic before choking out, "Uh, maybe? It's possible." He offsets his words of comfort with a light pat on the shoulder, which is, in what feels like the space-equivalent of three in the morning, hilarious.

“You’re terrible at this.” Lance makes a grab for his captive pillow, but it’s held out of reach. He settles for another sluggish face whack. “Next time the team stages an intervention, make sure to send Hunk. Scratch that, send the princess.”

“Look, nobody _sent_ me. I’m… I’m trying to look out for you, the way you do for everyone else.” For the first time since this whole conversation started, there’s a tired sort of timbre to his words. “I just don't have a lot of. Experience. With this sort of thing. Is it really that hard to believe that I’m here on my own?”

Lance wants to say, “Yeah, it is,” and leave it at that, but at this point it’d feel closer to cruel than he’d be comfortable with.

“You know what,” he says instead, “it is way too late for this kind of heart-to-heart. You really want to know what’s up with me?”

“Yeah. I do.”

And it really sounds like he does.

“Alright. Fine. In that case,” Lance shifts away from the least comfortable perch he’s ever had the displeasure to experience, and he lies down, resting his head on Keith’s lap. “Don't move for eight hours. Either that, or give me back my pillow. Then, we’ll talk.”

Keith doesn't do the latter and, surprisingly, doesn't complain. He just sits back, content to let exhaustion claim his companion.

To Lance’s disgust, it’s the best sleep he’s had in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted to write ridiculous straight-edge lance before it's disproved by canon
> 
> anyway, how everyone measures up on lance's scale of hot choco worth: 
> 
> keith: dollar store hot chocolate powder mixed with hot - almost lukewarm - water. disappointment in a cup.  
> pidge: *salted* caramel hot choco made with milk, it's from one of those fancy packets that says 'gourmet' in a typesetting that's near cursive, the ones saved for Special Occasions  
> coran: cinnamon spice with a Good Amount of cinnamon, it's hot choco in a paper cup for customers on the go! also with one of those cardboard sleeves. so they don't burn themselves.  
> shiro: cafe-level hot chocolate served in a cup that comes with a plate, and also with a candy cane. a modest amount of whipped cream.  
> hunk: hot chocolate with dulce de leche, topped with whipped cream and some fancy sauce drizzle, made with milk, tastes just like how mom would make it  
> allura: what's the best most fanciest way to drink hot chocolate. what's the most expensive hot chocolate that exists.
> 
> B/C OF A COMMENT, HERE'S LANCE HIMSELF: a white chocolate/dulce de leche/cinnamon/hazelnut/etc. monstrosity. it's completely undrinkable (unless you're Lance)


End file.
